


On the Edge

by Aviss



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BDSM, Dom Q, Dom/sub, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Pre-Skyfall, Sub James Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5742988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviss/pseuds/Aviss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Quantum, Bond is dealing with things as well as it could be expected. When all his usual means of getting himself under control fail, he is ready to try more unusual ones.</p><p><i>He is under strict orders to </i>'sort himself out, for God's sake!'<i> before he causes another international incident like the one in his last mission, or he fails to return from the next one. That's the reason he's finally gone to the club, though he isn't even sure if this is going to help. Of if he's going to go through with it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Only_1_Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/gifts).



> This is my entry for the 00Q Reverese BB, it has been a lot of fun participating, and having the chance to write for the multitalented Only_1_Truth art!
> 
> I have played a bit with the Skyfall timeline, putting it roughly two years after Quantum of Solace (where it should have been filmes, I read somewhere). And well, this is my first time writing for this fandom, and I hope not the last.

The entrance to the club is very discreet, no sign and no neon advertising announcing its presence to the general public. It's the first time Bond has been in it, though he has known of its existence and location for some time.

The inside, once he has surrendered to a search by a bouncer who looks more like Bond himself than the muscle for hire who usually guards the entrance to trendy clubs, is as tastefully decorated as the outside promises. The lighting is soft, giving the main room a golden glow and the people inside an ethereal quality, a long mahogany bar manned by two beautiful girls dominates the center of the room, and around it are a few lounge spaces. He can see a few couples in the couches; in a corner two women, one dressed in a black leather catsuit and the other wearing nothing but a smile, are involved in an intimate conversation while they sip from long champagne flutes and touch occasionally.

He turns from them, beautiful as the picture they make is, that is not why he is here.

As a matter of fact, he isn't entirely sure why he is here, only that he is, and this is his last resort. Much as it pains him to admit it M is right; things have gotten out of control.

He has known for some time that he was fraying at the edges; ever since Vesper, and the wild chase afterwards to take down Quantum, he has felt it, and no amount of drink and meaningless sex has been of help. He feels adrift, unmoored, and has no idea what he can do to fit again inside his own skin. Not that he has any intention to tell this to any of the therapists assigned by MI6; they are already salivating at the chance to get inside his head, he's not about to give them the rope to hang him with and report him unfit for duty.

For now he is grounded, M had sternly informed him once medical had released him. He is under strict orders to ' _sort himself out, for God's sake!_ ' before he causes another international incident like the one in his last mission, or he fails to return from the next one.

That's the reason he's finally gone to the club, though he isn't even sure if this is going to help. Of if he's going to go through with it.

There was that one time a lifetime ago, he remembers indulging in the kind of experimenting everyone of a certain age goes through. Most of it he remembers a night right before enlisting in the Navy when he let go of everything, the feeling of complete calm and exhilaration afterwards. He never saw the other man again, both of them deployed to different countries during the following week, but the memory has never left him, the itch under his skin to try it again making itself known from time to time.

He walks towards the bar giving the lounge area a wide berth, and observes the people there. Over at the bar most people is on their own, watching the couples while they drink, or scanning the other patrons probably in search of their own prospects.

Bond orders a scotch and settles to watch, he's almost convinced that this little excursion has been futile. Around him the couples are getting bolder, the patrons more interested, the noise louder. On one side a woman is kneeling between a man’s legs, her back to him and her front exposed to the entire room. She is wearing a blindfold and nothing else, and the man is inviting a woman sitting with them to join them. Bond averts his eyes from the scene, a surprised surge of heat in his gut at the woman’s moans when the other one touches her.

His eyes fall on one of the few people at the bar completely ignoring the spectacle. The man, young enough that he could be mistaken for a boy, is looking straight a Bond, his eyes moving appreciatively over his body. He is rail thin, wearing a black shirt beautifully tailored and black trousers that look almost painted on, his eyes look grey in the dark room, and his hair dark and artfully tousled. He has beautiful features, soft and long and almost elfin, and a wide mouth with full lips.

Bond approaches him; he doesn't look the type he is looking for tonight buthe is the only one that has really caught his attention in the place. Maybe the night doesn’t have to be a complete waste.

“Another scotch, please,” he orders when the waitress reaches his side, and slides up to the man taking the stool next to him. “I would offer you a drink, but you don’t look old enough to drink alcohol.”

There’s a twitch in the man’s expression that tells Bond he hasn’t liked the comment all that much, and he feels the smile on his face at the same time as the other man’s disappears.

“I didn’t know this place paid enough for the bouncers to dress bespoke,” he says, his voice cultured and surprisingly deep, and Bond has to reevaluate his estimation of his age. “If you’ll excuse me.”

The man turns around, dismissively, his eyes scanning the room again now that Bond has dropped in his estimation. That’s all right, Bond likes a challenge, he leans against the counter and signals the waitress. “Please get him another of whatever he is drinking. As an apology for my assumption,” he adds at the look the man shoots him.

“A margarita,” he finally acquiesces, brows raised as he looks at Bond, daring him to comment.

“You will have to forgive me,” Bond  says, smiling as he leans forward. “You don’t look as if you belong in here.”

“Because I am not wearing leather or completely naked?” the man replies, looking Bond up and down pointedly. And yes, they are almost the only ones dressed normally, not in leather or vinyl or any other kind of fetish wear. The only concession to the dress code is that both are dressed in black, Bond with a black suit, bespoke as the man has so keenly recognized, and a dark grey shirt with no tie.

“Because you still have spots,” Bond can’t help but say, and has to chuckle at his offended expression.

“My complexion is hardly relevant,” he says, taking a sip of his margarita, eyes never leaving Bond’s at all.

“You look all of twelve, I would have carded you if I was the bouncer."

"Which we have already established you are not." A note of amusement enters his voice; he's enjoying the banter.

"I bet you blush really beautifully with a complexion like that.” Bond leans even closer, dropping his voice to a seductive purr. The man narrows his eyes but doesn’t move, waiting to see what Bond's going to do, almost daring him to do something. Bond has never backed from a challenge, he moves his hand and collects some salt left on the man’s lips from the glass rim with his thumb, and then puts it in his mouth.

The reaction is not one he was expecting, the man’s eyes lighten up with amusement. “You really shouldn’t assume, Mr…?”

“Stock,” he says, giving the name of the cover he used for the club membership. It's a clean alias, one he's never used in London, and any inquires on it will turn up nothing more than a boring widowed security consultant. “James Stock.”

“Rudolf Quirke.” The man extends his hand, and his grip is firm and sure. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Stock.”

“James, please,” he says with a smile. It makes it easier if he doesn’t have to remember any name except his own, especially in an intimate situation. He notices that Quirke has not released his hand, and he tightens his grip a fraction, enjoying the warmth of the contact. “And what should I not assume, Rudolf?”

A grimace. “Q, please, only my mother calls me Rudolf.” Q tightens his own grip and uses it to pull Bond close to him with unexpected strength, leaning to whisper in his ear. “You should not assume anything. Appearances can be as deceiving in here as anywhere else.” His voice has dropped an octave, and it feels almost like a caress. He then does the most stupid thing in his still young life; he releases Bond’s hand and moves into his personal space, chests touching and his mouth next to Bond's ear. _“I am not submissive,”_ Q declares.

The next instant he is pressed against the bar, arm twisted behind his back. It is just a heartbeat before Bond realizes what he’s doing and releases him, his blood pounding in his ears, hands clenched by his side. He takes a deep breath, convincing his body that he isn't being attacked. He really is overtrained, as M keeps telling him. Fortunately nobody in the room seems to have noticed their little scene, most people paying little attention to anything except the shows that appear to have multiplied around the lounge area, and the main performance on the far end of the room where a stage is now illuminated with some people on it.

Q is still pressed against the bar, rubbing his arm where Bond’s grip is sure to leave bruises, and staring at him with a considering expression, as if he is able to read him just like that.

Maybe he is.

" _I see_ ," is all he says; Bond turns around and heads for the door.

This has been a bad idea, and he doesn't know what he was thinking to have gone there and approached anyone. M is right; he's out of control, he has been close to hurting a man for touching him, and even now, two streets from the club he can feel his hands shake with leftover adrenaline.

He goes straight home and drinks the better part of a bottle of whiskey.

It doesn't help, the feeling of Q's hand on his and his voice in his ear something he can't stop thinking about.

…

 

Q looks at James's retreating back as he flees from the club and sighs, rubbing his wrist.

He had the man in his sights since the moment he entered the club; it was difficult not to, James cut a striking figure dressed in an obviously expensive bespoke suit, looking around him at the people enjoying their night as if he wasn't completely sure what he was doing there. Even if Q had not been a regular at that club he never had any problem spotting the newbies, especially the ridiculously attractive ones.

Under the suit he could guess at James's body being muscled and powerful, his bearing more than likely military. He could not guess whether he is going to be dominant or submissive, and Q tries to never make assumptions, though he hopes. And the way he has responded to Q make him feel his hope is not unfounded.

Pity he has fled.

He thinks of James completely still for half a heartbeat when Q touched him; the blue of his eyes and the hardness of his chest, how he had been able to feel the pulse thrumming under his hand. He thinks on James's reaction, how fast he moved. Definitely military.

Q finishes his margarita and grabs his coat, casting a last look around the club but not seeing anything interesting enough to keep his thoughts from what has just happened.

He has the feeling James will be back.

…

 

Bond is back at the club a week later.

The week has been long and tortuous with nothing to do. He is still grounded, more so after his disastrous therapy session. It had been a waste of his time, something he already knew; he doesn't need a psychologist to tell him he has trust issues, he is well aware of that fact, he dares anyone to trust easily after his experiences. It still made M look at him with the kind of stern disappointment that got under his skin, and after three nights of too much drink and too little sleep, he's at the end of his rope.

He's either going to find a way to calm down, or going to go rogue and start a war somewhere just to have someone to shoot.

This time when he arrives he doesn't bother with more than a cursory glance at the couples enjoying themselves or the performers on the stage, he's looking for something in particular. Q.

He has thought about him during the week, thought about his grey eyes and young looks, about the apparent frailness and the obvious steel core. Q had looked at him searchingly, assessing but not afraid, after the sudden display of violence. And that, more than anything else gives him hope of this working.

Q is nowhere to be seen, though.

He orders a scotch and settles at the bar, letting his mind drift for a bit. It is later than the previous week and the club is fuller, noisier. Most of the people are focused on the performance taking place in the main stage, the couples in the lounge almost in their own bubble. He drinks and lets everything wash over him, a couple of cute girls approach him together asking if he is dominant and if he wants them for the night. Bond smiles at them and tells them ' _no, I am sorry, but I am not'_ and the words feel right in his mind for the first time. They look him up and down, sigh dreamily, and leave.

Bond is on his second scotch when boredom has him looking at the couples in the lounge area, the only other option to leave the club empty handed again.

Q is there, staring back at Bond.

He is again dressed all in black, the trousers this time a soft leather and the shirt open at the collar. He is not alone, though, sitting on his lap is a petite woman, redheaded and curvy, with a bust that threatens to spill from her corset. Q has an arm around her waist and his other hand resting against her neck.  

Bond takes a couple of steps in their direction, close enough that he can see the blissed out expression on her face but not enough to hear them. He doesn't need to, he sees Q's mouth form words and can remember the voice, that soft and deep timbre, and he sees the woman trembling, sees the way she parts her red lips and closes her eyes, chest heaving with each breath. Q tightens his hand on her neck, the other one dipping under the hem of her skirt, out of view, and she is shaking almost violently now. Q never stops talking to her, even when she stiffens and stops breathing for a few seconds, her body collapsing boneless against his a heartbeat later.

Bond is unable to take his eyes from them, not when the woman turns and smiles brightly at Q, planting a big red kiss on his cheek, or when Q lifts his hand, fingers shiny and wet, and lifts them to his mouth, eyes still fixed on Bond, deliberately licking them. He feels a wave of arousal at the gesture, at the way Q's tongue moves between his fingers, how he sucks them into his mouth, pink lips closing around them, mouth turned up at the corner. The woman says something to Q, and when she is ignored she follows his gaze to look at Bond, her brows climbing up her forehead. She laughs, kisses Q in the cheek again and stands from the couch to leave.

Before he can doubt himself, Bond turns to the bar and gets drinks for both of them.

…

 

"Thanks for that, Q. Good luck!" Laura says, kissing him on the cheek before she stands up from his lap and leaves him on the couch.

He can't take his eyes from James's back in the same way as James's eyes have been fixed on him the entire time he had been with Laura. Q wonders what he thinks of the display, whether this has made him lose interest in Q, though he has not broken eye contact until the end. When James turns from the bar, he has a cocktail glass in a hand and a tumbler of an amber drink, most likely scotch, in the other.

" _Margarita_ ," he says setting the drink in front of Q and taking the seat next to him. "May I join you, or is your girl coming back?"

Around them the party is in full swing, most people partnering up if that is what they want. On the other side of the club Laura is now sitting with a couple, a bright pink drink in her hand. "Not my girl, and not coming back." He takes the drink from the table and takes a sip feeling the burn of the alcohol and the sourness of lime in the back of his throat. "Just a friend."

He looks to pointedly at Q's hand. "Do you always do that for your friends?" He sounds sceptic but intrigued, an improvement from the previous week. At least he hasn't made any unfounded assumption yet.

"Sometimes, if they ask nicely," Q replies, and doesn't miss the way James's brows climb up his forehead. "This is what I do here. I give people what they want if they ask for it."

If those brows climb any higher they might end up disappearing. "And you always know what people want, just like that?"

Q drinks again to give himself time to put his thoughts in order. It is very rare that they have to explain anything at the club, and he doesn't want James to run again. "This is a Fetish club, as you well know. The people who come here already have a pretty good idea of what they want, and what they are going to get out of it." Laura did when she asked, and so did Q. "I have been coming here for a couple of years, the regulars know me, any submissive one their own can approach me and ask me, or I might approach them if I feel like it. We all know what we are doing here." From time to time a newbie like James will wander in, and occasionally they will not be ready to admit what they really want. He hopes it's not the case. "Tell me James, why are you?"

"I think you know why." He has a pretty good idea, but that is not how things work in this place.

"Do I? I remember telling you something about assuming," he says instead. "Last week it seemed you were looking for your own submissive for the night, and didn't react all that well when it turned out I wasn't it." James's eyes go to his wrist, and he can still remember the feeling of that iron grip on it, and how fast James moved. He might have had a couple of fantasies about subduing him this past week.

He waits in silence, sipping from his margarita, until James speaks. "I don't know what I was looking for last week," he admits. "But I know what I came looking for today."

"You came looking for me." It is not a question. "You are aware of what I am, and what I am not." No matter how attractive James is, Q is not going to change if he is wrong about him. He already tried that once and it didn't turn out well for anyone involved.

"Yes."

Q finishes his drink, anticipation making his skin tingle. Getting him to admit what he wants, obliquely as he did, is just the beginning. "Have you been with a man before, James?" he asks, and his look is enough of a response. "Ok. Have you been with a dominant before?"

"Yes."

"Good, do you want to go to one of the private areas?" They have yet to discuss limits and safewords, and some people prefer to do that in private.

"I'd much rather not," James says with a wary look at the stairs leading downstairs. Q blinks at him, uncomprehending for an instant. What have they been talking about if not that? "I have a suite at a hotel in Marble Arch, I'd prefer to continue this there."

…

 

The suite in the Montcalm is spacious and luxurious, a four poster bed completely dominates the room, a small table with to chairs on one side, and a perfectly stocked bar complete the decoration. Bond feels comfortable here; he spends so much time in hotels during missions that they feel like a second home, and they are neutral enough that he can relax. He drops his jacket on one of the chairs and turns to his companion, who is staring around the room with curiosity.

"Do you want anything to drink?" he asks, already heading to the bar.

"I'll just have a glass water." Q gets rid of his coat and sits on the edge of the bed while Bond gets them the drinks. They have not spoken much since the club, the cab ride tense with anticipation and the awkwardness of the stilted discussion about limits. He hands Q a bottle of water, and before he can take a step back he is stopped by Q's hand on his arm. "Wait."

Q stands up from the bed and steps up to Bond, staring intently at him. He tenses up a bit at the invasion of his personal space, and has to force himself to relax.

"Is this ok?" Q asks, closing the distance between them, his lips almost touching Bond's.

"Yes," he replies, voice rougher than the simple gesture warrants. The next second Q's lips are on him, the kiss open and devouring, a long fingered hand gripping the back of his neck tightly. Bond opens up to this, though it's the complete opposite to what he is used to; normally he will be the one to take control of the kiss, the one pushing, but it is not what he needs today.

Q steps back, breaking the kiss after what feels like an eternity and also no time at all, and looks at him again with a smile on his face. "This is a good look on you," Q says, and he sits on the bed again. He looks Bond up and down appreciatively. "I have been wondering what your suit hides since last week. Take off your clothes."

It's not an unusual request; Bond's body is another of the weapons at his disposal, one used for more than violence. He has stripped for many women, and a few men, sometimes hurriedly to get to the good parts, from time to time just for fun, playfully, and it is this feeling he tries to recapture, thought the way Q is observing him is too intense to be called that.

Q is still fully clothed when Bond stands naked in front of him, his eyes roaming appreciatively over his body. He has never been shy, it would be useless in his profession, and has been looked at with hunger and desire for a long time. It is the first time it feels like this, like he is on display and Q is staring at a work of art.

"I knew you would be incredible the moment I saw you," Q says, breathless, but he still doesn't move from the bed.

Bond is not used to the imbalance of power, even if it was one he was looking for. "Are you going to do anything or just look?" he snaps, and Q's brows climb up his forehead so fast they almost disappear from view.

"I intend to," he says, sobering up. Q opens his bottle of water and drinks from it. "But first we need to finish the previous conversation, you said you had done this before?"

The scepticism in his face is telling enough. "A long time ago."

Q nods. "Did you have a safeword? In that case," he says when Bond shakes his head. "We'll just go with green, yellow and red. Red means stop, Yellow slow down, Green is good to go."

Bond looks at Q, still fully dressed and composed. And so, so calm. "I can overpower you," he points out, because it is obvious in a contest of strength Q will never be Bond's match. "You do something I don't like and I will stop you."

Q stands up again and walks to one of the side tables, leaving the water there. "I'd much rather you say it if I am doing something you don't like, then end up smashed against the nearest wall, if you don't mind." He walks back towards Bond, not stopping until their chests are touching and he can feel the texture of the shirt against his skin. He tenses up again. "You are here on your own free will, if this is not what you want we should stop now."

"No." Q just looks at him mutely. " _Green_."

He gets another of those hungry kisses as a reward. Q is a scant inch shorter than him, and instead of going on tip toes, he grips the back of his neck and pushes Bond's head down, angles him for better access to his mouth.

"Lay down on the bed, hands on your sides, eyes closed."

Bond does, wondering if this is it. This is not what he expected, nothing like what he saw at the club, and not what he remembers from the one time. It feels too tame and silly in comparison. He is not restrained, could at any point turn the tables with just brute strength, and so far Q has only made easy requests of him. Q is attractive, and knows how to kiss, but nothing he has done is different that what Bond could get somewhere else.

There is something in Q's voice and demeanour that makes Bond want to please him, and he is already here. He might as well get laid tonight.

He notes the dip on the bed when Q joins him, hears the rustle of fabric that tells him Q is still clothed, and feels the breath on his skin before Q touches him. Sightless, all this sensory input feels increased, and he moves his hand in the direction he thinks Q is.

"No," Q says, sharp. Two bony hands encircle his wrists, pulling them up and over his head, instead of by his sides as they were the moment before. He has to fight his training and the impulse to fight again, the need to move and open his eyes, to push the person almost on top of him or reduce--

" _Yellow_ ," he hears himself say, and he doesn't know who is more surprised, him or Q.

Bond opens his eyes to find that Q has put some space between them and is studying him with some concern. "What is it?"

"I don't know." They have not done anything, and Q is no threat. "I think I don't like not seeing what you do," he finally ventures.

"Ok, what about the arms?" Q grabs his wrists again and presses them against the mattress.

Bond flexes his arms, and there is some give but Q is stronger than he looks. "Green."

"Good, don't move them. And don't look away from me."

It's not as easy an order as it seems at the beginning. Q commences his exploration of Bond on his face, brushing careful fingers over his features before he kisses him, prying his lips open with his tongue and exploring the inside of his mouth. He moves lower slowly, first caressing with fingertips the line of the jaw and the ears, then tracing it with the tip of his tongue. When he is on his neck Bond has to fight the impulse to move for the first time, he arches up when he feels lips on his pulse point, a hard nip on that sensitive skin that wrenches a groan from him. Then a hand surrounds his throat, loosely, not even pressing, and all his training tells him to push the threat away, break the hold and kill the other before he is killed. He clenches his fists, eyes open and fixed in Q to remind himself where he is. It lasts for a few seconds, and he can detect some approval on Q's expression when he darts a look at Bond. It goes on and on from there, curious hands and lips exploring his torso, nipping at his pectorals and nipples, scratching his sides and mapping his scars with care. He doesn't even notice when he closes his eyes, only that he feels like sinking into the bed, completely relaxed until the first touch to his cock, and then he snaps his eyes open, his entire body tense. He had not realized he was aroused, not in the middle of that gentle pleasure, but now is the only thing he can think of. Q is aware of the effect his exploration have in Bond, and scoots up his body to kiss him again.

"I can get you off with my hand now, or after I have explored as much as I want with my mouth. Your choice."

It is a tough choice. Bond has always prided himself in his endurance and stamina, and has wanted to be inside Q's mouth since the first time he put his eyes on it. But he has not felt this desperate, this aroused, in a long time.

"Now," he says, voice rough.

Q kisses him again as a response, long fingered hand closing around his clock with the perfect pressure, each stroke winding him up tighter. It is over in an embarrassingly short time, and Bond doesn't care; it is a fantastic orgasm, and he feels relaxed in a way he can't remember having felt in a long time.

He looks at Q and sees he is still dressed, and hard. "Do you want me to?"

Q shakes his head with a hungry smile and kisses him again. "You will, soon. I intend to fuck you after I have finished my exploration."

Maybe this is not so bad after all.

...

 

Q looks around the club one more time, trying to hide his disappointment.

He knew this might happen, was aware there was a chance he would never see James again after that time at the Montcalm. It had been an almost perfect night; James had been quite sceptic at first, but had ended the night boneless in his arms while Q fucked him into the mattress.

It had been delightful, having that much power under his control, relying on nothing more than an order for James to keep still, to hold position while Q touched and tasted and fucked him.

Most people believed Q's dominant style was too tame; he preferred his submissives to control themselves, to use ropes and cuffs and restraints only as props. And James had been perfect like that.

For just one night.

He knows he has to stop thinking about the man, knows he has to find someone to take downstairs before he ends up like the previous week, going home alone and spending another entire week thinking of James and his perfect body and his gorgeous eyes and his obvious issues.

"Margarita and a scotch," he hears next to him.

When he turns James is on the stool by his side, not even looking around. "Are you on your own tonight?" James asks, passing the cocktail glass to him as soon as it is served.

"Not anymore."

…

 

"This is not the most efficient system," Bond says taking a seat next the Q in the club.

It's the fourth time they meet there in two months, Bond being away on a mission the previous week. He has come to the club again almost straight from his debriefing, a quick stop home for a shower and clothes that don't smell of smoke and blood.

Q turns to him with a soft smile at the sound of his voice. "James, I was about to head home."

It is late, later than he would have wanted to arrive but M had insisted that he stopped by medical before leaving, and most of the people in the club are partnered and enjoying themselves either in the rooms downstair or the lounge areas. It had been a long shot hoping that Q was still there and available.

"On your own?" He asks, sceptical. He can't believe nobody has approached Q at all.

Q shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes. "I wasn't in the mood for company."

"Should I let you leave, then?" Disappointment tastes bitter in his mouth; he had not thought of that being a possibility, that Q might not want to go with him.

"No. I find that my mood has improved drastically in the past minute." Q finishes his drink and grabs his coat. "Maybe we should exchange numbers. That way I won't need to come here when I am just waiting for you."

He has a secure line in James Stock's name for his cover, he'll have one the geeks in Technical Services reroute it to his normal mobile. "I think you are right. Shall we? Do you want to get something to eat on the way?"

He gets a wide smile in reply. "Yes, please. I am starving." Q leans forward, smile turning predatory and voice low and seductive. "And you are going to need the energy for tonight."

...

 

"Is this what you wanted?"

Q is crouched in front of Bond looking at him with a curious expression, as if he had just arrived home and found him there like that, bound and bare chested, a coil of rope tying his hands at his back, a mask covering his face to remind him not to talk.

  

He is not gagged, Q is against impeding speech if he has his hands bound in case he needs to safeword, and that makes it even more important that he doesn't talk.

Is this consideration, more than anything else, that makes Bond come back to Q again and again. He could get free should he really want to, could probably snap Q's neck before he knew what was happening, and Q is aware that Bond is not harmless at all. And yet he insists in being so careful with him, and treating Bond like he is breakable.

"You are gorgeous, you know that," Q leans firmly into his personal space, and Bond forces himself not to tense. He breaths with it, feels his muscles loosen and is pleased at the ease of it now. He can tell Q has also noticed and shares his pleasure. "Is your eyes," he continues, touching Bond's face almost reverently. "I have never seen eyes so blue, so beautiful, and yet so opaque. You keep a lot of secrets, James." He wants to tense; in his experience when secrets are brought up to the light, it is never good for him. Betrayal has been a theme in his life for a long time. "I wonder if you would be so beautiful without them." Q muses out loud, dismissing the subject and the last of the tension bleeds out of Bond.

He stands up from his crouch, and not taking his eyes from Bond's, begins to remove his clothing. Unhurriedly but carelessly, letting each piece fall where they are as he reveals more of his body. Q is surprisingly strong for someone so thin, all wiry strength and corded muscle, hands sure and firm on Bond's body. He clambers atop of him, straddling his legs and leaning even closer. Bond opens his mouth, to ask to be touched, to be released, to be kissed. To ask for something, anything. He closes it again, remembering the rules for today.

"Good boy," Q says, his breath against Bond's ear, and he can't suppress the shivers running down his back or the flush of pleasure at the praise.

Q puts his mouth against the mask, licking the fabric and from the other side Bond imagines that if he presses his tongue against it, it can be almost as good as a kiss, he can get some of the taste of Q.

"I have been thinking about this since the first day I saw you," Q says, one of his hands disappearing from view. Bond groans at the image, and what he knows is coming next, the urge to move his hands and help Q prepare himself, the eagerness to be inside him almost overwhelming. "You like the idea."

Q seems to be as eager as Bond, working himself open quickly while he holds his balance with the other hand on Bond's shoulder. He stops, search around for an instant until he finds what he's looking for, and steps away from Bond. Even for just a second, he feels the lack of contact keenly, all his nerves attuned to Q. He is back a heartbeat later, opening Bond's trouser with deft hands and rolling a condom on.

"This is my favourite part," Q says confidently. He climbs back onto Bond's lap and starts lowering himself, excruciatingly slow, on his aching cock. He can feel it surround him, inch by inch, and is unable to take his eyes off Q, drinking in the minute shift of his expression, the tenseness at the pain of the stretch, the stubborn set of his jaw as he keeps taking in more, the black of his pupils and flush on his cheeks. Bond stays still and silent through it all, and when Q is finally sitting on his thighs, body trembling with the effort, he leans forward and rips the mask off Bond.

He kisses him in the same way he moves, slow and exploring at the beginning, increasing the pace in increments, one hand gripping Bond's neck, the other on his cock until they are both panting, breathless, and Bond needs to come so desperately, like he has never felt the need. "God, so beautiful," Q pants against his mouth, his voice wrecked. "If only you could see yourself. Come for me, James."

He does, slumping against Q who pumps his cock once, twice, and then comes as well, clenching almost painfully around him.

He feels his eyes close, and the bonds around his arms being released. Almost mechanically, Bond lets himself be guided to the bed, drinks a glass of water and feels ointment being put on his wrists. He doesn't care, too content and boneless to do anything but lay there and hold Q closer.

...

 

"What is it that you do?"

Q wonders, his fingers tracing the edge of a new scar between two ribs, a scar that looks like a stab wound if Q is any judge. The question is barely a whisper, not really meant to be heard in the almost silent room. They are both naked on the bed, the sweat cooling off their bodies and their breathing getting back to normal. James is finally relaxed, practically boneless on the bed after their activities. It is a good look on him, the tension he seems to carry with him everywhere gone for a few hours.

"Mmm?" James mumbles sleepily, shifting on the bed until he can look at Q with eyes only half opened.

He should not ask these questions, this is not what they do; what they do is meet in this hotel room and have sex, have conversations about wine, or books, or the best holiday spots. James is incredibly knowledgeable about the world whereas Q has never left England, the simple idea of getting on a plane terrifying. What they don't talk about is themselves, but Q is curious, it's one of the most defined traits of his personality, and there are cuts and bruises on James's skin that he wants to know about.

If James finds the question inappropriate, he doesn't say. "Security," he finally answers, voice rough and scratchy. "I consult with big companies in security matters, mostly abroad." That explains the extensive travelling and the body and the occasional injury. There is more to it, Q can tell, but this is enough. It is more than he expected. "You?"

"Security as well," he replies, smiling at James's incredulous looks. There is also more to it. His main employer is the Treasury, though he consults with them on a freelance basis, and he has been borrowed by MI5 once or twice. He has a pile of non-disclosure agreements to match his lovely security clearance, and has to be twice as careful not to engage on any of his previously not-so-legal hobbies. "Cybersecurity. I secure networks for big companies."

"Of course you do," James says, almost unintelligible before his eyes close again, arms moving to surround Q and press him close, and Q lets himself be moved, enveloped and lulled to sleep just like that.

...

 

The sweltering heat of summer in Malaysia weights Bond's body down, sapping the energy from his limbs and making him wish he was somewhere else. Somewhere colder.

Next to him, on the bed, a gorgeous woman sleeps without a care in the world. She has been a beautiful distraction and a source of information, and very enthusiastic in bed. Not too long ago that would have been more than enough for Bond.

He stands up from the bed, careful not to wake up his companion, and pours himself a drink. He can feel that itch under his skin, knows what it is that he wants and that until he is back in London, back in the privacy of the Montcalm, he won't be able to relax in that way.

He thinks of Q, back in dreary London and more than likely back at the club now Bond has missed their appointment for the second time in a row. He doesn't like the stab of jealousy at the image of Q's hands on someone else, of his voice whispering praise to another person. He knows it's not a logical emotion; they don't have a relationship, they have an agreement, and Bond is not keeping celibate anyway.

He stands by the window completely naked, letting the soft breeze coming from the beach cool his skin, and downs his drink. Illogical or not he still feels jealous; it might be he is in deeper than he thought.

He expects a panic that doesn't come at that.

Q has wormed past his defenses with no problem, and has also proven to be trustworthy. He's had Bond at his mercy on more than one occasion, could have killed, or al least given it a good shot, a few times. Bond is aware that as a standard for a relationship, his is fucked. It comes with the job, and the lifestyle.

Not that he is really considering a relationship with Q. He can't. It's just the heat and the sleeplessness making him maudlin.

He goes back to the bed and wakes up the girl, enjoying the way she moans and presses against him, her curves so different from Q's hard planes, her softness and how she doesn't expect anything from him. He kisses her and she opens up to him, giving everything to him, and Bond is not done lying to himself, telling himself he doesn't miss Q at all.

When they finish she clings to him like an octopus and Bond listens to her breathing, and hates the heat and wishes again he was in London. Just because of the weather.

In the morning he gets new orders to head to Turkey, the intel obtained from the girl good enough to give them a new lead.

...

 

Q would be terrified out of his head if he could find it in himself to care about anything right at his minute.

Q is fucked. He knew he was fucked the moment the file came up on his computer, didn't need the armed men and women knocking on his door not even an hour later, and definitely doesn't need the stern looking woman currently trying to look inside his head to know how very fucked he is.

Out of the top three stupid things he has done in his life, along with the time his brother challenged him to jump from the second story window of their grandparent's house and he broke his leg, hacking into MI-fucking-6 must be top of the list.

He feels stupid for not figuring it out sooner. James Stock, security consultant. A man who was military trained, had reactions that sometimes felt like PTSD and trust issues that could be seen from space, and came back from his work trips sporting cuts, bruises, and in one occasion, bullet wounds. A consultant who was required to travel at the drop of a hat and never knew when he was coming back. Q has consulted for MI5 in a couple of occasions and still he has not seen the obvious until it was too late.

And well, that is apt. It is too late.

James Stock has never existed and James Bond is dead. Missing in action, presumed dead, for the past three weeks.

Q would have never known if he had not been worried about him, used some of his less advertised skills to track him. He had known, even as he started typing the strings of code necessary, that he was breaking the agreements he had in place with his employers. Not to mention whatever trust James had in him. It had been hubris thinking he would not get caught, and a reckless worry what made him think it didn't matter if he did.

"Rudolf Quirke," the woman says, a thin folder with what he presumes is his entire life under her hands. She has read it in silence while Q waited for her to say something, an intimidation technique that is only half-working. "31 years old, son of Grant and Gemma Quirke, brother of Renard and Robert. Well, at least one of you has a normal name. Genius level IQ,  cybersecurity consultant for MI5 and The Treasury, and quite the security clearance." She finally looks up to him. "For someone so intelligent, you did something quite stupid."

He feels like laughing. Or crying. Probably both.

"Don't I know that."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

She fixes him with a hard look, behind her a door opens and a balding man with a gentle face and an impeccable suit enters and hands her another folder. She opens it, frowns at the contents, and goes back to staring at Q.

"Don't get smart with me, boy. It won't end well," she purses her lips, and looks at the ceiling, almost as if asking for patience. "A few weeks ago we were hacked," she begins, and Q feels the ground opening under him. He might be more fucked than he believed. "They took sensitive information, we sent several teams to retrieve it and in the process lost some good agents. Now I find someone has hacked us again, and is looking at the file of one of my best agents, now deceased. I repeat, why?"

He has nothing but the truth to offer. "I was worried. James never misses our dates without warning, and he wasn't replying to his messages or picking up his phone." It is such a ridiculous reason he has to smile, and it feels brittle on his face.

She exchanges a look with the balding man. "Dates?"

"I have been dating James for almost a year, thought I didn't know his real name. I believed he was called James Stock, and I did a search for him. As you say, I have worked with MI5; I can spot a cover identity, I have set up enough of those for them. I know I should have stopped the moment I realized that, but I am good enough that I believed I would get away with it."

She makes a gesture and the man leans over her shoulder, after a quiet exchange he leaves again. The way she is looking at Q now makes him feel like a bug under a microscope. "You are good, our technical services were impressed with the ' _beauty of your code_ ', and if we had not been on high alert for cyberattacks, you would have got away with it. I have trouble believing someone with your skill set and ability will throw everything away for love."

"I wouldn't call it love," he protests. He has not thought of it in those terms, and he much rather not do it now that James is gone.

"And what would you call it?" He doesn't get the chance to reply, the balding man is back a minute later, the expression on his face when he looks at Q one of almost pity. He goes to the woman and tells her something, too low for Q to hear, though it is clear he is the subject of their discussion. When she turns back her expression has softened minutely. "It looks like you are telling the truth. Trust the brat to mess someone up even after death," she says, and for the first time Q can see the lines of grief on her face past the hardened exterior. He wonders who she is and what she was to James.

Not that it matters. He is still fucked for getting caught hacking MI6.

"I have always been loath to waste talent, Mr Quirke, and we could do with someone like you around here. I can send you to jail for treason, or reinstate your security clearance and put you to use catching the person responsible for this entire mess. Your choice."

Q is not sure he can believe what he is hearing, but really, there is no choice. Not if he can help get the person who killed James. "I'll help."

She nods approvingly, the shadow of a smile on her lips. "I hoped that was your answer. Welcome to MI6, Rudolf."

"Please call me Q, everyone does."

She stops on the way to the door, and this time there is no mistaking the amusement in her expression. "We already have one of those around here. Maybe one day it will be you, but for now you can start as R."

…

 

The National Gallery is quieter than Bond would have expected for a museum during tourist season, but it seems the new Quartermaster picked the perfect place for their meeting, the very nature of the place giving it an anonymity few people expects from such a public place.

He wonders how long the Quartermaster will have him waiting, whether he will have any time for himself before he has to board the plane and risk his life again for Queen and Country. He doesn't know what he'll do if he has, but he knows what he wants to do unadvisable as it is. It shouldn't be too hard to find Q's mobile number again and get in touch with him; finding a believable excuse for a four month disappearing act might be a bit more difficult.

During his three month sojourn in Greece as a dead man Bond had thought about him frequently; he had thought about Q's hands and lips and body, and also about his sense of humour, and the way he liked to play with the short hairs on the back of Bond's head when they were both laying on the bed, sated and boneless. He had thought about Q's appetite in the morning, and the surprising amount of food he put away for such a thin person, or the way he seemed unable to keep his eyes open until Bond put a steaming mug of black tea within reach in the morning. He had thought about his voice, deep and cultured, and the things that voice provoked in Bond when they were together, the absolute filth that fell from those perfect lips when he had Bond tied to the bed and aching to be touched.

He had been tempted to contact him once or twice, mostly when he was drunk and unsatisfied. He knew it was a bad idea no matter how much he had liked Q; they had an incredible chemistry and the sex was spectacular, but Q didn't even know his name, or what he did for a living, and he didn't deserve to be saddled with Bond in his state.

It is still a bad idea, but maybe if he survives this mission, he can contact Q and tell him his real name, and perhaps, once he has a house again take him one night to his own bed. It is something to look forward to.

He feels someone take a seat next to him and that snaps him out of his thoughts. This must be the Quartermaster, finally deigning to grace him with his presence. Bond is about to turn when the voice hits him, and he feels the breath leave his lungs.

"It always makes me feel a little melancholy, a grand old war ship, being ignominiously hauled away to scrap." Bond turns and it is like seeing an image superimposed on another. The voice is Q, there is no doubt of that, and the eyes looking at him behind thick framed glasses are the same grey-green he remembers. There is no trace of his stylish black clothes; he is wearing an ill fitting suit and an oversized parka, and instead of the artfully tousled dark hair he liked sifting his fingers through, he has the messiest curls Bond has seen.

This Q looks like a bad attempt of a harmless geek, and Bond can't believe he's there. He also can't believe this is a coincidence.

 _"A gifted hacker_ ," Tanner had said on their way to the National Gallery when Bond had inquired about the new Quartermaster, " _he looks a bit like he should still be in college. Has been with us a for just a couple of months, but_ _was moonlighting as a security consultant for the Treasury and MI5 for the past couple of years, the security clearance wasn't a problem. Still have no idea why he hacked into our systems, but we are glad he did_."

It makes sense now, the amused look M and Tanner had shared before sending him to the meeting.

" _007_. _I'm your new Quartermaster_."

_"Q."_

Bond smiles and takes the extended hand, not quite a handshake. This is the best he has felt since he was shot off that train; they still have a much to talk about, a four month absence and Bond's apparent death to begin with.

But now he can have Q as himself, and also have him taking care of him at work.

It is something to look forward to.

…

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me in [tumblr](http://aviss.tumblr.com/)


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